


The storm and the sky

by ofdaffodilsandmoonlight



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Similes, but also A Man Dies, i dont agree with the spelling of andrey here, i had to rewrite all the tags, poetic shit, yes actual fluff this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 08:48:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15069530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofdaffodilsandmoonlight/pseuds/ofdaffodilsandmoonlight
Summary: Loved and lost.





	The storm and the sky

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Things left unsaid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14987915) by [Saffiaan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saffiaan/pseuds/Saffiaan). 



It was one of those mornings.

One of those mornings where the sky was endlessly hidden by clouds, and the sun was invisible, yet must have been present to allow the bit of light that there was.

It must have been six am.

Fedya’s room was still fairly dark, but light enough yet to see unclearly the corners of the walls, to make it look like the ceiling was made of silk, folded carelessly at some angle. It made everything distorted, unreal.

This never frightened Andrey, and the situation was impossible as it was.

He turned his head just a bit.

There was the face of Dolokhov himself, somehow seemingly having gotten through the night undisturbed by nightmares. Andrey could not see all the outlines of his face, as he had grown accustomed to when he saw the man by light of the sun or candle.

Fedya emanated warmth, his arm draped over Andrey’s middle in what had once been an effort to hold him close, perhaps, his head rested on Andrey’s broad chest.

Andrey watched him, perfectly calmly, half daring him to lift his head and meet his eyes with his own, sleepier ones, the color of which Andrey could only describe as that of a storm.

Indescribable, specifically.

A great many things about Fedya were indescribable. He couldn’t be put into one category of person, though for many years Andrey considered him more like that of Anatole Kuragin.

Fedya was certainly not Anatole Kuragin.

Anatole Kuragin would not have saved his life. Anatole Kuragin would never have used his last written words to tell Andrey he loved him. Anatole Kuragin had no reason to love him.

What reason did Fyodor Dolokhov have to love him?

The question wasn’t one Andrey needed an answer to, really. But he knew the statement was true.

Fyodor Dolokhov didn’t love just anyone. Fyodor Dolokhov didn’t look at just anyone the way he did Andrey.

Fyodor Dolokhov was looking at Andrey.

Andrey pressed his lips to Fedya’s forehead, a simpler ‘Good morning’, one where the presence of sound and words were not needed. 

Nothing needed disturb their morning, their moments of peace, savored and longed for again as they passed.

No words were needed. 

Not all words could be uttered.

As Andrey pulled back, Fedya’s gaze returned to him. 

Fedya Dolokhov was a storm.

A storm was a disturbance to the sky- well, not so much of a disturbance as a part of it, really. Behind the storm would always be the rest of the sky.

 

The last day Andrey saw Fedya there was no storm. The room was bright, fairly warm, and so unfittingly so.

Andrey filled the space with words.

Words they didn’t need.

Words that were not of the storm that Fedya Dolokhov was.

It felt that the storm had passed.

Then it was Andrey who passed,

And Fedya Dolokhov

The storm,

Was left to see the sky. 

 


End file.
